Ruck, Maul, and Knock On
by storyranger
Summary: Some maniac has resurected all of Holmes greatest enemies, and challenged him to... A rugby game? Join Holmes, Watson, the Irregulars, and some other familiar faces as they train and compete in the ultimate challenge. It's the sport of gentlemen... or not
1. Chapter 1: The Challenge

I had originally envisioned this as a one shot, but decided to break it up into a series of short chapters. Enjoy!

The Challenge

"_Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the showdown match of the century…"_

"Holmes"

"Yes Watson?"

"I rather think we're in for it this time."

"You may be right old chap. Steady on… you keep these Forwards in line, eh?"

"Right…"

Yes, the unthinkable had happened… some maniac had resurrected Holmes' greatest enemies, and challenged them…

… to a rugby game.

It was simple enough, in theory. The match was to be at Blackheath. Watson knew the field well, and could point out any specific problems posed by it. The rules of the challenge were simple. Holmes had thirty days to come up with and train a team, and on the first of September he would face off against whoever Moriarty had found, with the maniac (not Moriarty, the one who resurrected him) himself as the referee.

Now to get a team…

* * *

So, like it? Read and review, please! 

Three guesses as to who the "maniac" is…


	2. Chapter 2: Getting a Team

Here's chapter 2!

Getting a Team

Holmes immediately set about recruiting, though he put Watson in charge of positioning. Godfrey Staunton had already agreed to be their right centre, and Watson was starting Holmes out as right wing. Watson himself would be a prop forward. They just had to find 14 other players…

Holmes wired Henry Baskerville, and he said he'd do it, but he'd have to be taught the rules. Several inspectors on the yard offered to play, and Watson called up young Stamford, who was delighted with the idea. They received a letter from Murray, Watson's orderly in Afghanistan, saying he'd play if they'd take him, and Barker, Holmes' old rival, who said he was willing if needed. Irene Alder even showed up, insisting she be at least be given at chance to try out. Watson was set to refuse, but Holmes, in a rare fit of humour, told him to give her a chance. The Irregulars showed up, eager to help, and Holmes said Wiggins could play and the rest could be water boys or assistants, holding crash pads and the like. With the addition of Sam they had enough for a team. Now all that was left was to learn how to play.

* * *

And that may a problem…_ hehehe_… 


	3. Chapter 3: First Forays into Training

First Forays into Training

_**Watson**_

When Holmes asked me to work out positions, I didn't think it would be all that difficult. We'd do a few days of basic try-out practises, nothing to strenuous. By then I'd have a basic idea of everybody's strengths, and could start putting people in, switching them around, until I'd figured out where I wanted people.

What I didn't count on was 50 of the team either didn't know the rules, or was completely hopeless.

When I walked onto the field, I was happy to see that they were all at least dressed for a practise. Well, most were. A few of the inspectors were wearing very nice shirts, which I felt certain would soon be destroyed beyond repair.

"Alright Watson," said Holmes, with an encouraging smile, "What shall we do first?"

"Um… We'll all jog a lap to warm up, and then do some stretches."

"You heard him," barked Holmes, "let's get going."

"Go easy on the first lap. We don't want any pulled muscles!" I said quickly, as they started off.

The first lap is usually what separates the packs from the backs, and the smart from the stupid. Those who are smart will pick an easy pace and stick with it for the whole time. The stupid will start out fast, and then get slower and slower until they have exhausted themselves.

Already I was seeing some separations. Holmes was fast, and would do well as a winger alongside Staunton. Sir Henry was sturdily built, a fair runner, and had played football in Canada, so he had some ball handling skill, and was a shoe-in for Number 8.

And if Irene proved herself able to hack it, and if she was a decent kicker, she would be a perfect candidate for fly half. 'Women,' I reflected, 'are much better at keeping their heads under pressure.' My only concern about the idea was how the backs would react to taking orders from a woman…

Sam Wiggins, small but aggressive, was perfect for scrum half. Bradstreet, tall and stocky, and Hopkins would be good locks, with training…

The majority of the "team" had now finished their lap and were looking at me expectantly. It had been ages since I'd done warm-ups, and so I turned them over to Staunton, who led us through a systematic series of stretches and then set up a four corners drill. As the others ran it I called him over and asked him what he thought of them all.

"Well, Doctor, you have some raw talent here," said he. "But they're going to need practise."

At that precise moment, Gregson smashed into Irene, dropping his ball in the process. She shot him a dirty look as she completed her pass, which was direct and precise.

"Lots of practise."

* * *

Hehehe… thanks to all who reviewed! 


	4. Chapter 4: Doomed, Plain and Simply

Thank you to my very encouraging reviewers! Here's chapter four!

Doomed, Plain and Simply

_**Staunton**_

As that first practise progressed, I was rapidly struck with the notion that we were almost certainly doomed.

For starters, our likely Number 8, Baskerville, had never actually played rugby, and had to be continually reminded that you** _can't_ pass forward**. Gregson and Lestrade, though each other's bitter rivals on the force, were very similar on the field; each was hopelessly clumsy, and sexist to boot. When asked to "take a run at 'er an' try'n knock'er down," he flat out refused. When reminded that this was a partner drill, and that he really had no say, he ran at her quite quickly with no intention of actually tackling, and was promptly sidestepped and straight-armed with enough force to break his nose, and the resulting explosion of blood landed him on the bench for the rest of the afternoon.

Then there was Murray and Le Villard, who weren't half bad, considering they had never played any sort of contact sports before. Stamford was at first reluctant to tackle or be tackled, until Holmes deduced that he was concerned for his teeth and Watson had him outfitted for a mouth guard. Barker had some skill, but was overly arrogant and did not wish to really work.

The majority of those remaining had varying levels of skill, though they were united in a desire to improve and learn. I only hoped we could teach them fast enough.

Thirty days had suddenly begun to seem like a very short time…

* * *

Coming up: Mouth Guard Fittings, Cleats and Jerseys… who knew there was so much _stuff_ involved? 

Chalk talks: You have to plan the game on paper first? I thought you could just play!?!


	5. Chapter 5: The Enemy Camp

Well, as Pompey so rightly pointed out, we have not yet seen…

The Enemy Camp

This was going exactly as planned.

Holmes may have beaten him once, but this was no longer a question of intelligence, no contest of smarts, no battle of wits.

No. This was a contest of strength and skill, which the men he had been given had in spades. If a man was not cunning enough to fully understand plays and strategies, he had the brute strength to make up for it.

Grimesby Roylott, strong enough to bend steel pokers, and Steve Dixie, with speed and agility scarce rivalled. Stapleton was rather skinny, but he could run. Milverton and Clay were, to put it plainly, pansies, but that could be rectified with some… _training_.

They were running drills now. Three men would rush at a group of two. The first would go into contact, then drop and post the ball as the other two arrived and started a maul. A fourth would grab the ball and run, to where two others would be waiting, and start it all over again. They weren't perfect, but with a little… _encouragement_, they should be a fine team.

This was his domain, and he would not be beaten. And when the match was won, he would be free. And this time, there would be no ledge to catch Holmes…

Yes, reflected Moriaty, this would be a fine match. After all, thirty days was plenty of time…

* * *

The plot thickens... what's really on the line in this match?!? 

Why am I asking you?

Updates will be slower come Monday, I'm afraid. I have to return to that most uncreative of institutes... High School! I miss my old school... two weeks of March Break... sob

But now I'm in silly old public school, and that means slower updates for you... maybe...


	6. Chapter 6: Considering Kit

Yes, I know this is a little improbable, but I had too get Mycroft in here somehow…;o)

Considering Kit

_**Holmes**_

I was rather tired as we trooped back to the field house, but that was hardly surprising. I hadn't run that much in ages, and I had been hit by some rather clumsy passes…_cough_**Gregson**_cough_.

Watson and Murry insisted that we all take showers "if we wanted to be able to move tomorrow," and after doing as I was told, and changing back into street clothes, Watson and I hailed a cab and headed back to Baker Street.

Later that evening, as I stood by the fire, meditatively playing my violin, Watson looked up from his book and said, "Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear chap?"

"Holmes, have you… do you realize…"

"Realise what?" I asked, setting down the violin on the mantle and reaching for a drink and my pipe.

"Realise that… Holmes, have you honestly considered how much _**stuff**_ we need?"

His question caught me off guard, and I realised that I hadn't actually considered it all. Of course, I knew there had to be some equipment involved, but I never really stopped to think about it seriously…

I told him as much, and he pulled out his notebook.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a list. Now, let's see…"

_**Watson **_

"Mouth guards, football boots… we'll have to get those fitted, you know, and the studs will have to be metal… The mouth guards will have to be fitted too… and we'll need jerseys, we can't just go out there in practise shirts, they'll get torn to shreds… I think that's everything!"

I looked up at Holmes, whose face had gone through varying states of paleness as the evening had progressed.

"Oh, and we'll have to have a chalk talk soon."

"A what?" said Holmes weakly.

"A chalk talk! Going over strategies, plays, positions…"

"You mean you have to plan the game on paper first? I thought you could just play!"

"No, no, you have to plan everything!" I was quite tempted to laugh at Holmes' expression, but refrained.

"But when are we going to be able to get all that stuff? And where are we to find a room large enough for us all?"

"Oh, come now Holmes! Any classroom would do… I say, there's a room large enough in Mycroft's club…"

The sound of a glass shattering alerted me to Holmes's opinion of the idea.

"Watson!"

"Do you have a better idea?"

And so it was arranged that we would meet the following morning in the Diogenes Club, and afterwards would walk over to the local sports store for cleat fittings. Of course, the executives of the club were none to please about the idea, but having your brother as a founding member certainly has its perks. Staunton had friends in high places when it came to equipment, and had already offered to use his weight to get us a deal or two…

Still, despite all our planning, I still had a nagging feeling as I went to sleep that tomorrow was going to go horribly wrong.

* * *

It started off fine. We met at the club, and after receiving stern lecture to keep it as quiet as possible, we sat down, with Staunton and Cyril Overton at the black board. For an hour or so they tried, with varying strategies and levels of intensity, the various plays and rules crucial to our success. After an hour it was clear that all most none of this was sinking in. Overton decided to try a different strategy, and called up Murray, Barker, Le Villard, and Wiggins to help him.

He employed them in an active demonstration of how to create overlap, and seeing that using demonstrations worked best, continued in this manner using different people every time.

Halfway through a man walked through the door and sat down at the back. He went largely unnoticed, except of course by Holmes, who gave a small grin and went back to studying Staunton and Overton's lesson intently.

I took a few more moments to study the man. He seemed strangely familiar, but I couldn't quite place him…

The talk was winding down, and I daresay they were glad to see us out of there. We decided to stop for lunch at a nearby restaurant, and Irene Alder surprised us by quizzing us throughout to see what we'd actually learned. She was relentless, catching any small mistake on our part, but also humorous, making it rather like a large game instead of the Spanish Inquisition. She didn't let up until the dessert arrived, but at our insistence agreed to let us move on to other topics after one last question. She chose to address the stranger, saying, "You there, you haven't said anything all lunch! When is the only time when those not receiving in a line out must not stand at least 10 metres back?"

"I'm afraid I missed that bit. Please be so kind as to enlighten me." He lifted his head up as he said this, and suddenly the face and the voice fell into place.

"When a team is less than 10 metres form their own goal line, then need only stay behind it…" she trailed of, and it was obvious from the slight change in her expression that she recognized him as well. She recovered herself admirably, and gave us her permission to change the topic, then fell silent, as did the man.

I remembered Holmes had once helped him in a case, for I had later penned that tale, of Holmes averting...

A _scandal_ in Bohemia…

* * *

Haha! You all knew I couldn't resist your wonderful ideas…


	7. Chapter 7: Scrums and Screaming

So, it's been what, five months? I _am_ sorry for the delay. What took me so long? Ah, it was the enemy of all fanfiction writers: _**life**_.

Thank you to all of my wonderful reviewers, who I hope will not have abandoned me… and have given me the most wonderful ideas…

Sherlock Does Not Scream

And

Scrums are Awkward

_**Holmes**_

When the dessert was finished and the cheque was paid, we headed over to the sports store to be fitted for equipment. One may, at this point, be wondering why I was doing this. It was no small thing to attempt, and the time and effort involved to be successful was staggering. Even now, as I look back, it seems like a most hopeless endeavour.

I am continually criticizing Watson for romanticising the facts, so I will lay them before you a plainly as possible. On August 1st a man approached me and stated that he had a challenge for me. A rugby game, to be played against Moriarty and numerous other villains, with their freedom as the stake. I could have anyone I wanted on my team, as long as they had some connection to Watson, myself, or a previous case. If I were to lose, I would have to recapture _every_ _**single**_ **one**. If I won there was nothing in it for me, but if I refused he would set Moriarty free.

Of course, I insisted on proof. Well, to be brutally honest, I laughed in his face. That may not have been an intelligent thing to do, but I did not honestly believe that anything the man said could possibly be true.

The man led me to an alley three streets away, where I was confronted with the leering grin of the Professor himself.

It took all of my iron will not to scream like a school girl.

I agreed to the proposal immediately.

I must admit that I, Sherlock Holmes, severely misjudged the magnitude of what I was undertaking. It chose to hit me somewhere around the time I walked into the shop and saw the first price tag. This would probably have cost me the entire sum from the Priory School case, and maybe even some from the Bohemian scandal.

This brings me to a second point which I must set straight. Contrary to popular belief, I did not invite the King to play because I knew having him and Irene Alder on the same field would cause sparks. Irene insisted on playing. She proved herself worthy. The King offered to play, and endorse the team, and I still needed players (and now, it would seem, money) badly. There was no spite or malice intended, and I was hoping that maybe they could act like gentleman (and lady), and keep their conflicts off the field.

Whether that was possible would remain to be seen. For now, I had to concentrate on the task at hand. Already there was some confusion, and I could sense that very few of us actually knew what we were doing. Staunton and Overton had decided to take control, and I willing lent my "masterful" (Watson's adjective, not mine!) voice to the task.

_**Overton**_

Holmes divided our group in two, and sent half over with Staunton to get mouth guards, leaving me in charge of cleats.

If I were to launch into a detailed description of how to choose footie boots, maybe one 10th of you would be interested. The rest would be searching around for a pistol with which to shoot themselves, so I say no more than that when you fit a large group it becomes rather disorderly and messy, with a good deal of banter and complaining.

Then we switched around, and looked at mouth guards. I, for one, have never been in favour of them, but the good Doctor Watson was insisting on them. We managed somehow, though they are extremely tedious (not to mention rather painful!) to fit.

Thursday dawned, clear and bright, and armed with our new gear, we were ready to start true training.

We began with warm-ups, stretches, and light drills, then were called for a huddle as Watson designated everybody as either packs (forwards) or backs. The backs were sent off with Staunton to run echelons, and we packs started practising scrums.

It is indescribably awkward to teach scrums to people you have known only for a week. But teach I did, with the welcome help of the skilled, if somewhat rusty, Watson.

"Watson, Murry, prop! LeVillard, hooker! Bradstreet, Hopkins, locks! Wiggins, scrummy, Baskerville, number 8! Stamford, open side! I'll take blindside. GO!"

The ensuing 15 minutes was a nonstop flurry of absurd chaos, groaning, bruising, and falling down. And of course, once we'd got them in the scrum, we had to get them out of it, quickly, so they were ready to chase and/or follow the ball. After taking several elbows to the face and one or two directly to the teeth, I learned to appreciate the mouth guards.

It became quickly apparent that we would need that we needed proper practise jerseys, soon, as it is almost impossible to get a tight bind with someone who is only wearing a t-shirt, or no shirt at all.

"We're going to need jerseys as soon as possible," I told Watson, somewhat apologetically, as we switched the subs in and changed a few people around so they could get a feel for all the positions, just in case. He rolled his eyes.

"Coming right up."

* * *

Most of this is pulled directly from experience… metal cleats and spandex jersey's changed my game. I went from _really_ lousy to just plain lousy!

Up next? Some jersey design and espionage with our favourite friends, the Irregulars!


	8. Chapter 8: I Spy

Alfie is borrowed, with expressed permission, from KCS. The other Irregulars are mine! And I might as well mention that besides the plot, that's all I own.

I Spy

_**Watson**_

I decided to wait until after dinner to bring up the subject of the jerseys. One good thing about the whole confounded affair­­­- Holmes was actually eating for a change.

But after Mrs Hudson had delivered the coffee tray and excused herself to retire for the night, I decided the matter could wait no longer.

"Holmes," I began, "Overton mentioned to me today during practise…" I paused, trying to decide how best to put this to him. I had notice the way his eyes widened upon viewing the bill this morning, and was loathe to suggest him spend more on this ridiculous venture. "He thinks, and I agree, that we need practise shirts as soon as possible."

Holmes didn't say a word, and his face remained its usual impassive mask, so I pressed on. "You know, practise jerseys? So we don't have to continually be washing our game jerseys… by Jove, we haven't ordered those yet, either, have we? The pack needs them for good scrums, and think about it Holmes, we need to start practising plays and proper tackling and rucking and mauling soon, and we can't really do any of that without rugger shirts! Well, we could, but 50 shredded shirts later and I think we'd think it a good investment." I trailed off, uncertain of what else to say, and unable to read Holmes' reaction.

He finally broke the apprehensive atmosphere. "Of course. But who will we get to design them?"

His immediate acceptance of the request caught me completely off guard, and I stared at him incredulously.

"Oh, come now old chap, we can't be having plain, average, mundane jerseys, can we? Even if they're only for practises, we have an image to maintain, have we not?"

Still slightly bewildered, I thought aloud. "I suppose we could have one of the Irregulars do it."

"Splendid idea! I'll tell Wiggins tomorrow. We'll have the orders in by Saturday.

"But Holmes!" I exclaimed, coming fully to my senses, "It'll cost a fortune! Two sets of emblazoned jerseys for the whole team?"

"Of course," he added with the smallest hint of a smirk, "we'll have to run it by our sponsor…"

"Sponsor!" The significance of the presence of His Majesty the King of Bohemia suddenly dawned on me. "Oh." I said rather stupidly. "Ohhhhhhhhh," I added again, equally stupidly, as the humour of the situation hit me.

We had rather a good laugh. I suspect my moment of idiocy was the reason Holmes joined in.

_**Holmes**_

The next morning being Thursday, I approached Wiggins immediately before practise to tell him of our proposal.

"Wiggins!"

"Aye, Gov'nor?"

"I have a job for your boys. I need them to design the team jerseys. Logos, colours, everything."

"Blimey gov'! You ain't kiddin' or nuthink?"

"I am most certainly serious… and Wiggins?"

"Yes Mr 'Olmes?"

"Bring round some of you best lads at lunch. I have a job for them."

Practise was mainly the same as the past 3 days. Running, running, passing while running, and more running.

But with half an hour until break, Staunton announced that we would now join with the packs and try something new.

Kicking.

The basic premise of the exercise was simple. Split the team in half, give almost everyone on one side a ball, and have them all kick it to the other side. The other side then caught the balls and kicked them back. This meant that the whole team would not have to chase their balls down the field after each kick, and we could also get some valuable practise catching, in case the other squad was using kickers.

Of course, actually executing the exercise was a different thing.

For starters, Staunton made kicking look easy. It's not. You need very good aim, and it hurts quite a lot if you botch it up. To help us along, Staunton and Overton made it into a sort of friendly contest, with the loosing side having to buy the winning side drinks after practise on Friday. Points would be scored for each ball caught, and at the end of 4 rounds the winner would be declared by our score keeper Alfie, who just happened to be hanging around.

As difficult as kicking it was, catching it was in a league of its own. You can never quite tell where the ball is going, and it's extremely hard to judge when it's coming down. On top of that, a really good kick hurts like Hades when you catch it, and can often times knock the breath out of you.

Needless to say by the end of round three the score sat at a pitiful 6-4 for the other side, made even more pitiful by the fact that two of our points had been scored by Alder, and the other two by me. Baskerville and Wiggins seemed to be having a war of sorts: one would kick it directly at the other, who'd miss, retrieve it, and kick it right back at them. Most of the others weren't faring too well. It wasn't for lack of trying; in fact several really good kickers had emerged, but most just couldn't seem to get the hang of it.

We rallied during round four, and scored a point when Baskerville "won" the war, but we ended with a sound thrashing of 12-5 and broke for lunch.

True to his word, Wiggins had half a dozen boys at the gate less than five minutes later. I had sent Watson on ahead to the pub, for I was not to sure whether he would approve of what I was about to do.

"Mr. 'Olmes, this here's Alfie, Freddie, Jack, Bob, Jimmy, and the tall one there's Grenadier. There's the best o' the best fer what'cho got in mind."

"Thank you, Wiggins. You may go." My dismissal surprised him, and for a minute I thought he would refuse. He thought better of it though, and walked off with _Sir Henry_, of all people.

"Now boys, what I'm about to ask you must be kept strictly between ourselves. Do you all understand?" Six eager faces looked up at me and nodded. "Good. I want you to-"

I explained their "mission" as quickly and thoroughly as possible under the circumstances, then sent them scampering off towards their goal.

I hoped they would return bearing favourable news.

_**Omniscient**_ _because author sucks at Cockney (she can speak it, she just can't write it.)_

The boys were slightly nervous about what they were about to do, but for several different reasons.

Jimmy, because it was his first mission and he didn't want to botch it;

Freddie, because his slightly fastidious sense of sportsmanship couldn't decide whether what they were doing constituted as cheating;

Bobby, because he was the oldest and therefore responsible for any mishaps;

And Jack, Alfie, and Grenadier, because they were about to spy on a rugby team made up of and led by the most dangerous men in the world, and quite frankly would like to leave in one piece.

Jack, Alfie, and Grenadier had the right idea.

Oh the joys of working for Mr 'Olmes.

They found a pretty well concealed spot to watch the practise. It was… something.

To start with, Moriarty was completely and totally unforgiving. A dropped pass in the first warm-up equalled a strike, and three strikes equalled 25 push ups for the whole team. Then they ran laps, ran some passing drills, did more push ups, and started doing tackling drills. The sheer brutality of these men towards their own teammates was shocking. The boys didn't really want to think about how they'd treat the enemy.

Then came the kicking drills. They were vaguely similar to the ones the Baker Street Team was doing, but every time a man missed a catch, he had to run the length of the field and back. Then after more running, more push ups, a few rucking and mauling drills, they split the packs and backs. The packs proceeded to execute several perfect scrums, and proceeded to line outs, which seemed to be the one thing they couldn't do very well. Jack took very careful note of this fact.

It was very evident to Grenadier why the men did so well. The team was run very much like the army: the men feared their coach, and when one man made a mistake, the whole team suffered. After the practise was completed, when the rest of the boys were starting off, he hung back for a minute, watching a few men gather round Milverton. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but when Bobby came back to take a look and reminded him that Milverton had dropped six passes in a row, resulting in 50 extra push ups, he was not surprised when the men started raining blows on Milverton.

The rest of the lads yelled at Gren and Bobby to hurry up. They didn't really mind.

* * *

I know it ends a bit abruptly, but it was getting far too long…

Next up? The boys reveal their findings to Wiggins and Holmes. Watson finds out about the spying in a somewhat roundabout way. And it's getting down to crunch time.

_**AND**_ Check out my profile for links to diagrams of the kicking drill, jersey designs, etc. More coming as I think of it.


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